INTO 

HIS  OWN 


t//i& 


AN  AIRGDALG 


CLARENCE  BUDINGTON  KELLAND 


THE 

GAMMANS  POETRY 

COLLECTION 


In  Memory  of 

GEORGE  H.  GAMMANS,  II 

Class  of  1940 

First  Lieutenant  Army  Air  Corps 

Distinguished  Service  Cross 

Missing  in  Action  January  15,  1943 

THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA  LIBRARY 


library 

School 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00022226039 


s 


This  BOOK  may  be  kept  out  TWO  WEEKS 
ONLY,  and  is  subject  to  a  fine  of  FIVE 
CENTS  a  day  thereafter.  It  is  DUE  on  the 
DAY  indicated  below: 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/intohisownstoryoOOkell 


/  4* 
V 


wwa^«^»»^«w*\s^^ 


Into 
His  Own 


The  Story  of 

An  Airedale 


BY         J  I 
I 


A 


CLARENCE  BJ  KELLAND 

Author  of 
Thirty    Pieces  of  Silver" 


PHILADELPHIA: 

DAVTD   McKAY,    Publisher 

604-608  South  Washington  Square 


mmmmimmmfmfMm^mMmmiMm'mfmMM'mm^mmmm 


Copyright,   1915,  by  David  McKay 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

Page 
A  Fine  Start  for  a  Young  Dog 5 


CHAPTER  II 
"  Gutter  Dog  " 13 

CHAPTER  III 
The  Fiohting  Breed 20 

CHAPTER  IV 
Sandy  Kens  a  Dog  when  He  Sees  One 30 

CHAPTER  V 
The  Title  is  Handed  Down 40 


Ui 


CHAPTER  I 

A   FINE   START   FOR   A   YOUNG   DOG 

"There's  as  promisin'  a  pup  as  I've 
seen  in  two  dogs'  ages/'  was  what  I 
heard  the  man  in  the  kennels  say  about 
me  once,  and  I'm  glad  I  heard  it.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  I'm  afraid  I'd  have 
lost  my  grip  when  folks  was  saying  I  was 
nothing  but  a  yellow  cur  and  throwing 
things  at  me  and  sicking  other  dogs  on 
me.  But  I  remembered,  and  I  remem- 
bered, too,  that  the  man  that  said  it 
knew  what  he  was  talking  about.  If  he 
said  I  was  a  good  puppy,  then  I  was  a 
good  puppy,  and  no  use  arguing  about 
it. 

Sometimes  I  almost  forgot  what  kind 
of  a  dog  I  was.  You  see  there  was  so 
many  things  happening,   and  I  had  so 

5 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


much  on  my  mind,  and  my  schooling 
was  broken  off  in  what  you  might  call 
the  kindergarten,  that  I  didn't  under- 
stand how  important  it  was  to  know 
what  kind  of  a  dog  I  was.  That's  the 
first  thing  a  puppy  ought  to  learn,  and 
he  ought  to  learn  it  so  he  can  say  it 
backward  and  frontward  and  upside 
down. 

But,  as  I  say,  I  almost  forgot,  and  it 
was  just  my  luck  to  fetch  up  in  a  little 
town  where  nobody  knew  the  difference 
between  a  St.  Bernard  and  a  Mexican 
Hairless. 

I  am  an  Airedale,  but  I  don't  speak 
like  one.  That's  the  fault  of  living  in 
the  gutter  like  I  did.  I  picked  up  gutter 
talk  and  now  it's  hard  work  for  me  to 
speak  the  way  I  ought  to.  An  Airedale 
ought  to  speak  Scotch.  Mother  did. 
I  remember  the  burr  in  her  speech. 
She  used  to  say,  "Dinna  ye  ken,  Laddie, 
a  wee  bit  doggie  should  look  tae  his  ain 

6 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


manners  afore  he  gi'es  a  thocht  tae  his 
meals?"  That's  real  Airedale  talk.  But 
I  lost  the  trick  of  it. 

The  worst  part  of  being  an  Airedale  is 
that  folks  have  to  be  educated  to  appre- 
ciate you.  A  body  that  don't  know 
thinks  because  we're  so  homely  we're 
not  of  good  family,  and  call  us  "yaller 
dawgs."  They  don't  understand  our 
points.  And  that's  why  I  had  such  a 
hard  time  of  it. 

I  don't  remember  all  about  how  my 
hard  luck  started.  Things  were  so  noisy 
and  confused.  I  do  remember  waking 
up  and  hearing  no  end  of  racket  and 
gongs  ringing  and  folks  yelling;  and  then 
there  was  the  yellow  light  that  fright- 
ened me.  It  was  a  fire.  It  kept  getting 
closer  and  closer  and  smoke  got  in  my 
lungs  and  I  was  scairt  almost  to  death. 
Then  somebody  kicked  in  the  door  and 
I  put  my  tail  between  my  legs  and 
scooted.       I    kept    right    on    scooting. 

7 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


Most  likely  there  never  was  a  puppy  as 
frightened  as  I  was.  It  seemed  like  I 
couldn't  stop  running,  and  I  didn't 
for  a  long  time.  When  I  did  I  was 
away  out  in  the  country  and  it  was 
dark  and  I  was  alone. 

Thirsty!  Wow,  but  my  mouth  was 
dry  and  my  throat  felt  like  an  old  shoe 
I  used  to  play  with  near  the  kennels! 
I  found  some  water  in  a  ditch  and 
lapped  and  lapped  until  I  could  feel 
myself  puffing  out  like  a  fat  pug — and 
no  self-respecting  dog  likes  to  look  like 
a  pug.  When  I  couldn't  hold  any  more 
I  crawled  under  some  bushes  and  went 
to  sleep. 

It  was  daylight  when  I  woke  up,  and 
then  for  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  tell 
which  way  I  had  come  from.  Anybody 
who  thinks  I  wasn't  good  and  lost  has 
another  guess  coming.  And  me  not 
seven  months  old!  You  can  scare  an 
Airedale  just  so  much,  and  then  he  begins 

8 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


to  get  over  it.  That  was  the  way  with 
me;  there  wasn't  any  more  room  for 
scare,  so  I  braced  up  considerable  and 
started  off  to  do  the  best  I  could  for 
myself,  which  didn't  turn  out  to  be 
much. 

The  thing  that  worried  me  was  being 
away  from  my  family  without  saying 
good-bye  or  letting  them  know  where  I 
was.  I  knew  mother  would  worry  and 
stew,  which  isn't  good  for  a  dog,  particu- 
larly when  the  bench  show  is  coming  on 
and  she  ought  to  look  her  best.  Mother 
was  a  Blue  Ribbon  dog.  I  didn't  under- 
stand just  what  that  was,  but  she 
seemed  pretty  proud  of  it,  and  the  man 
was  proud  of  it,  too.  I  wished  I  could 
get  word  to  her  not  to  fuss  about  me. 
It  was  quite  a  while  before  I  even 
thought  that  I  might  never  see  her  again. 
Never!  Think  of  that!  Well,  sir!  I 
just  sat  down  and  bawled.  That  was 
because  I  was  so  young. 

9 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


I  was  hungry,  and  when  a  puppy  is 
hungry  it  is  hard  for  him  to  think  long 
about  anything  but  his  stomach.  Pretty 
soon  I  quit  bawling  and  mooched  along 
to  see  if  there  was  any  chance  of  getting 
a  bite. 

About  a  mile  away  was  a  house.  I 
didn't  know  then  that  every  farmhouse 
belongs  to  a  big  dog  and  that  the  big 
dog  is  mostly  bad  tempered.  That  was 
something  I  was  to  find  out.  The  first 
lesson  came  at  the  house  I  could  see. 
It  makes  me  laugh  now  to  think  of  it — 
to  think  of  a  half-bred  black  Collie  dog 
chasing  me  down  the  road — me  that  got 
to  be  the  toughest  dog  and  the  best 
fighter  in  our  county!  Why,  to-day 
I'd — But  that  wasn't  to-day,  was  it? 
Far  from  it. 

The  dog  didn't  chase  me  far,  but  he 
might  as  well  have  run  me  a  thousand 
miles.  There  wasn't  another  place  I 
could  see  where  there  was  even  a  hint  of 

10 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


grub.  It  was  enough  to  make  a  puppy 
lay  on  his  back  and  wiggle  his  legs. 
That  was  where  the  Airedale  came  in, 
for  ours  is  a  blood  that  doesn't  do  that 
sort  of  thing.  We  can't.  So  I  kept  on, 
dodging  dogs  and  teams,  till  I  came  to  a 
pretty  good  sized  town — not  a  city — 
but  a  good-sized  place.  I  didn't  dare  go 
up  a  street,  but  slunk  through  an  alley. 
Fine  start  for  a  young  dog,  wasn't  it? 
Alley  dog,  that's  what  I  was.  The  first 
day  I  got  as  low  down  as  that. 

The  next  week  was  bad.  I  was  kicked 
and  stoned  and  chased  and  bitten.  It 
seemed  like  everybody  had  a  grudge 
against  me — dogs  and  men  and  horses 
and  cats.  I  slept  a  different  place  every 
night,  and  if  there  was  ever  a  dirtier 
puppy  than  I,  then  he  was  in  a  pretty 
sad  way.  I  hadn't  made  a  single 
acquaintance.  The  only  dogs  that  spoke 
to  me  had  growled  and  ordered  me 
away  or  sneered  at  me,  and  I  was  lone- 

11 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


some.  I  kept  thinking  about  my  family, 
and  I  made  up  my  mind  I  never  would 
stop  looking  for  Mother  so  long  as  I 
had  three  legs  to  run  on. 


12 


CHAPTER  II 


"gutter  dog" 


It  was  the  next  week  that  I  first  saw 
the  bull  terrier  Joggs,  who  afterward 
became  famous  under  the  kennel  name 
of  Raynsford  Champion.  Outside  of  me, 
he  was  the  only  dog  of  champion  stock 
in  town — and  I  didn't  realize  I  was 
then.  He  was  being  led  along  the  street 
by  a  man,  and  you  never  saw  a  puppy — 
for  he  was  about  my  age — look  like  he 
thought  he  was  so  important.  And 
mean!  Say,  the  expression  on  Joggs' 
face  was  enough  to  make  you  turn 
around  and  bite  yourself. 

He  was  on  the  sidewalk  and  I  passed 
him  in  the  road.  As  soon  as  he  saw  me 
he  commenced  to  sneer  the  way  bulldogs 
do,  and  there  isn't  a  more  exasperating 

13 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


sneer  in  the  world.  He  looked  up  at  his 
master  and  then  at  me  again,  and  then 
said: 

"Gutter  dog." 

Just  like  that,  he  said  it.  Well,  I  was 
a  young  dog  and  I  was  in  all  sorts  of 
trouble,  so  maybe  I  would  have  been 
justified  in  making  believe  I  didn't 
hear.  But  Mother  had  impressed  it  on 
me  never  to  take  any  lip  from  a  bull. 
She  said  no  bull  was  ever  a  gentleman; 
that  they  were  nothing  but  toughs  come 
into  a  little  prosperity,  and  that  she'd 
disown  a  son  of  hers  that  wasn't  a 
better  dog  in  or  out  of  a  fight  than  the 
best  bull  that  ever  growled.  So  when 
Joggs  called  me  a  gutter  dog  I  stopped 
still  and  looked  at  him  as  insulting  as 
I  could  and  told  him  he  was  a  lap  dog 
and  slept  in  the  same  basket  with  a  cat. 
He  was  so  mad  he  looked  like  he'd  gone 
crazy.  The  man  that  led  him  had  hard 
work   to   hold   him,    and   I   didn't   care 

14 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


whether  he  did  or  not.  Finally  the  man 
dragged  Joggs  on,  but  not  before  he  had 
told  me  what  he'd  do  to  me  if  he  ever 
caught  me.     I  just  grinned  at  him. 

That  settled  things  for  me.  I  had  to 
stay  in  town  now.  It  would  be  impos- 
sible for  me  to  keep  my  self-respect  and 
go  away  before  I  had  a  full  settlement 
with  that  bulldog. 

That  afternoon  I  made  friends  with 
old  Pete.  He  was  a  tramp  and  he  was 
lazy  and  shiftless  and  generally  no- 
account,  I  guess,  but  for  all  that  he  was 
the  best  friend  I  ever  had.  And  wise! 
That  old  dog  knew  everything.  What 
ailed  him,  I  expect,  was  that  he  was  so 
many  kinds  of  dog — I'll  bet  there  were 
a  dozen  breeds  in  him,  and  he  looked  it. 
He  had  the  bad  luck  to  inherit  the  home- 
liest point  of  each  of  them,  and  the  good 
luck  to  inherit  the  best  part  of  their 
brains.  That's  all  he  had,  though — 
brains  and  a  kind  heart.    He  knew  what 

15 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


a  dog  ought  to  do  and  how  he  should  do 
it,  but  he  lacked  the  backbone  to  live  up 
to  what  he  preached. 

He  was  lying  back  of  a  deserted  barn 
when  I  came  along  looking  pretty  down 
in  the  mouth. 

" Hello,  young  feller,"  says  he,  wiggling 
his  tail. 

"Howdy  do,"  says  I,  tickled  to  death 
to  hear  a  pleasant  word. 

"If  you  hain't  got  no  pressin'  business," 
says  he,  "come  and  lay  down  in  the  sun." 

So  I  did. 

"What's  ailin'  you?"  he  asked  me. 
"You  look  like  you'd  e't  a  p'isoned  pork 
chop." 

It  was  too  much  for  me  and  I  broke 
down  and  whimpered  and  told  him  the 
whole  business.  He  questioned  me  pretty 
keen,  especially  about  my  Mother  and 
the  kennels  and  then  he  made  me  stand 
up  and  walk  around  so  he  could  look 
me  over  careful.    While  he  was  doing  it 

16 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


he  kept  waggling  his  head  and  mumbling 
to  himself,  but  what  he  was  saying  I 
couldn't  hear.  I  know  now  he  was 
sizing  me  up  to  see  if  I  really  had  class. 

"What  you  aimin'  to  do?"  he  wanted 
to  know. 

"I'm  going  to  stay  in  this  town  till  I 
lick  that  bulldog/'  I  says. 

"Good  idee/'  says  he.  "Every  young 
dog  ought  to  have  an  object  in  life." 

We  stretched  there  in  the  sun  quite  a 
while,  just  being  sociable.  After  a  while 
old  Pete  says  to  me: 

"You  hain't  quite  old  enough  yet  to 
look  after  yourself  like  you  ought  to. 
If  you  hain't  got  no  objections  you  can 
sort  of  hang  around  with  me.  I've 
banged  up  and  down  the  world  consid'- 
able  and  I  calc'late  I  won't  do  you  no 
harm  when  I  give  you  advice.  It's  to 
be  a  partnership,  though.  You  got  to 
hold  up  your  end." 

I  told  him  I'd  be  tickled  to  death,  and 

17 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


that  settled  it.  For  more  than  a  year  old 
Pete  and  I  hung  together,  and,  like  he 
said,  it  didn't  do  me  any  harm.  Maybe 
I  didn't  get  what  you  would  call  polish 
— but  I  did  learn  a  lot  of  dog  sense;  and 
Pete  wouldn't  stand  for  any  bad  habits. 
He  taught  me  a  lot.  For  instance,  he 
taught  me  to  fight,  something  he  couldn't 
do  himself — but  he  knew  how  just  the 
same  and  he  had  a  way  of  telling  things 
that  made  you  understand  right  off. 

"Remember,"  he  kept  saying  to  me 
till  I  was  tired  of  it,  "that  you're  a 
thoroughbred.  Don't  forgit  you're  an 
Airedale.  It  don't  matter  how  deep 
down  you  get  on  your  luck,  keep  thinkin' 
about  your  blood.  Blood's  what's  the 
matter  with  me  and  blood's  what'll 
make  you  come  out  all  right  in  the  end. 
Don't  forgit  it." 

We  didn't  have  an  easy  time  of  it, 
you  may  be  sure,  but  we  managed  mostly 
to  get  enough  to  eat,  and  in  a  few  months 

18 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


I  had  my  growth  so  other  dogs  didn't 
pitch  on  us  to  amount  to  anything. 

" You're  a  fightin'  breed/'  says  Pete. 
"Let  'em  find  it  out.  Them  that  can 
fight  and  is  willin'  to  fight  don't  usually 
have  to." 


19 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    FIGHTING   BREED 

I  presume  I  got  to  be  a  pretty  tough 
and  swaggery  sort  of  dog.  I  was  a  big 
Airedale  and  strong,  so  that  pretty  soon 
the  dogs  found  out  it  wasn't  fun  to 
meddle  with  me.  At  first  I  rather  looked 
for  fights — just  to  establish  my  reputa- 
tion. When  I'd  licked  about  a  dozen 
curs  it  got  around  that  I  was  a  bad  one, 
and  Pete  and  I  were  left  alone.  After 
that  I  never  fought  unless  some  stranger 
picked  on  me — or  unless  I  really  needed 
the  practice. 

"I'll  bet/'  says  I  to  Pete,  "that  I  could 
thrash  that  Joggs  bulldog." 

uUm,"  says  he.  " Maybe  so,  maybe 
not.  You  got  lots  to  learn  yet.  I'll 
tell  you  when  you're  ready  for  him." 

20 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


I  saw  Joggs  several  times,  but  he  was 
either  riding  in  an  automobile  or  being 
led,  so  we  just  made  nasty  remarks  to 
each  other.  Word  was  brought  to  me 
several  times  that  Joggs  had  it  in  for 
me  and  intended  to  get  me  as  soon  as 
he  could. 

"Wait,"  old  Pete  kept  telling  me. 
"A  bull  fights  different.  You  hain't  had 
no  experience  with  bulls." 

But  I  got  some  experience.  A  tramp 
bull  came  to  town  that  fall,  and  he  was 
a  rough  customer.  Right  away  he 
started  bullying  everybody  and  picking 
fights.  Pete  made  me  keep  away  from 
him,  but  I  watched  two  or  three  scraps 
to  see  how  he  went  at  it,  and  that  didn't 
do  me  a  bit  of  harm. 

Finally  Pete  said  I  might  as  well  take 
a  crack  at  the  bull,  so  I  just  waited 
around  like,  to  give  him  a  chance. 
Don't  ever  worry  about  his  taking  it. 
That  dog  loved  to  fight. 

21 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


It  happened  in  front  of  the  livery 
barn,  and  he  started  it.  We  went  to  it 
good,  and  it  didn't  take  me  more  than  a 
minute  to  find  out  I'd  taken  on  a  good- 
sized  job.  He  kept  trying  to  get  under 
me  to  take  a  chunk  out  of  my  throat, 
but  I  was  too  quick  on  my  legs  and  kept 
going  in  and  out  and  nipping  him,  waiting 
for  a  chance  to  throw  my  weight  against 
him  and  knock  him  down.  He  ripped  me 
good  a  couple  of  times  and  we  were  both 
pretty  well  mussed  up,  but  in  the  end  I 
got  him  and  got  him  good.  Over  he 
went,  and  I  got  my  hold  right  under 
his  muzzle.  After  that  it  was  good  night 
bulldog! 

"Am  I  ready  for  Joggs  now?"  I  asked 
old  Pete  that  night. 

He  grunted  and  grumbled,  but  finally 
said  he  guessed  I  was  as  good  as  I  ever 
would  be.  "But,"  says  he,  "Joggs  is 
champion  stock.  Don't  pick  him  for  an 
easy  one." 

22 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


Right  after  that  things  happened  that 
made  me  forget  for  a  while  about  Joggs 
and  even  about  looking  for  Mother.  Old 
Pete  and  I  were  kept  so  busy  dodging 
men  with  guns  that  other  troubles  didn't 
have  any  time  to  bother  us.  It  was  on 
account  of  sheep  killing. 

If  there's  one  thing  in  the  world  an 
Airedale  hates  more  than  another  it's  a 
sheep-killer.  We  originated  where  sheep 
grow  and  the  instinct  to  sort  of  look  out 
for  them  is  fast  in  our  blood.  But  the 
men  in  that  part  of  the  country  didn't 
seem  to  know  about  it,  and  I  was  sus- 
pected just  as  much  as  any  other  stray 
dog,  or  farm  dog  for  that  matter,  in  the 
vicinity.  There  were  half  a  dozen  dogs 
shot  in  a  couple  of  weeks,  and  Pete  and 
I  kept  out  of  sight. 

"Fd  like  to  get  a  grip  on  that  sheep- 
killer,"  I  says.  "There  wouldn't  be 
any  need  for  a  man  with  a  gun." 

Early  one  morning  Pete  and  I  came 

23 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


sneaking  out  of  the  woods  to  look  for 
something  to  eat.  We  came  down  the 
middle  of  the  road  so  nobody  would  see 
us  in  the  fields  or  pastures  where  sheep 
were  grazing.  It  wouldn't  have  been 
safe.  Pretty  soon  I  got  a  sniff  of  sheep 
and  saw  a  flock  of  them  just  waking  up 
over  to  the  right  in  a  little  valley.  It 
was  a  pretty  sight  and  I  stopped  to  watch 
for  a  minute. 

As  I  stood  looking  I  saw  something 
white  sort  of  creep  over  the  top  of  the 
hill  and  crawl  toward  the  flock.  It 
wasn't  any  sheep — and  it  was  a  dog. 
For  a  second  I  didn't  understand,  and 
then  it  popped  into  my  head  that  here 
was  the  sheep-killer. 

I  said  as  much  to  Pete,  and  he  said 
I'd  best  come  along  and  keep  my  nose 
out  of  other  folks'  business.  But  a 
sheep-killer  is  any  honest  dog's  business 
and  I  told  him  so  pretty  brisk. 

"You  can  do  what  you  want  to/'  he 

24 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


says.  'Tm  going  to  put  a  lot  of 
country  between  me  and  here."  Which 
he  started  to  do  with  his  tail  between 
his  legs. 

I  crawled  through  the  fence  and 
circled  so  as  to  get  behind  the  sheep- 
killer,  and  I  went  pretty  fast.  I  kept 
over  the  brow  of  the  hill  till  I  was  about 
where  I  wanted  to  be  and  then  I  crept 
as  cautious  as  I  could  to  where  I  could 
see.  Well,  sir,  you  could  have  knocked 
me  over  with  the  jerk  of  a  puppy's  tail! 
The  sheep-killer  was  in  plain  sight. 
He  was  white  like  I  said — and  he  was 
a  bulldog.  And  he  was  the  bulldog.  I 
almost  barked  for  pure  joy.  Honest  to 
goodness  if  it  wasn't  that  Joggs  dog — 
Raynsford  Champion  he  was  now. 

"Howdy  do,  Mr.  Champion,"  says  I 
to  myself,  and  after  him  I  went.  Before 
I  got  to  him  he  was  on  a  sheep  and  was 
worrying  its  throat.  I  could  smell  the 
blood  and  it  made  me  sort  of  sick  to  my 

25 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


stomach ;  also  it  made  me  see  red.  Funny, 
but  that  white  dog  looked  red  to  me  for 
a  second.    The  next  second  I  was  on  him. 

He  let  go  that  sheep  sudden  and 
turned  on  me. 

"Sheep-stealer,"  says  I. 

"It's  you,  is  it?"  says  he.  "Good." 
And  then  we  went  at  it. 

It  was  a  silent  fight.  He  never  made 
a  sound  for  fear  somebody  would  come, 
and  I  was  still  because  I  was  saving  my 
breath  to  use  in  my  business. 

I'll  say  this  for  Joggs — he  was  some 
fighter.  For  a  bulldog  he  was  about  as 
good  as  you'll  meet,  and  he  was  strong 
and  well  trained  and  well  fed.  I  was 
down  to  weight  because  I  had  to  be,  and 
I  got  all  the  exercise  I  needed  dodging 
men  with  guns,  so  on  that  score  we 
were  even.  But  I  had  one  advantage. 
I  hadn't  been  killing  sheep.  Maybe  you 
think  that  don't  amount  to  anything, 
but  just  you  go  into  a  fight  with  a  clear 

26 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


conscience  when  the  other  fellow  knows 
he  has  been  at  something  low  down  and 
mean — and  you'll  understand. 

We  kicked  up  considerable  sod,  I  can 
tell  you.  At  the  start  we  were  pretty 
cautious  because  wTe  knew  this  was  no 
ordinary  fight,  but  when  we  really  got 
heated  to  it  we  left  out  quite  a  lot  of 
strategy  and  put  in  considerable  more 
scrap.  Joggs  kept  calling  me  out  of 
my  name  every  time  he  got  a  chance  to 
breathe,  and  the  things  he  said  would 
have  made  a  Spitz  envious — and  a  Spitz 
is  the  meanest  talking  dog  alive. 

He  gashed  me  down  the  shoulder  and 
once  he  got  a  hold  on  my  leg,  but  I  broke 
away.  Another  time  he  threw  his  weight 
on  me  when  I  was  unbalanced,  and  for  a 
jiffy  I  thought  it  was  all  day  with  me. 
But  I  kicked  out  with  my  hind  legs  and 
boosted  him  enough  to  let  me  scramble 
from  under.  There  wasn't  any  let  up. 
We  fought  on  and   on  and  on,  and  oh, 

27 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


how  tired  I  was  getting!  I  expect  he 
was,  too.  When  we'd  been  at  it  till  it 
seemed  like  hours  and  I  was  cut  and 
bruised  and  bleeding  from  a  dozen  places, 
I  managed  to  give  him  a  nip  in  the  small 
of  the  back,  and  I  guess  it  must  have 
hurt  plenty,  for  he  just  forgot  all  his 
science  and  came  for  me.  And  he  came 
high  up,  which  was  very  foolish  of  him. 
I  met  him  halfway — from  below — and 
there  wouldn't  have  been  anything  to  do 
but  carry  home  a  bulldog  if  somebody 
hadn't  interfered.  As  it  was,  he  didn't 
have  more  than  a  half-hearted  wheeze 
left  in  him. 

All  of  a  sudden  somebody  grabbed  me 
by  the  scrufT  of  the  neck  and  threw  me 
a  dozen  feet. 

"Here's  your  sheep-killer,"  says  a  man. 

I  didn't  care  what  he  said,  but  made 
for  Joggs  again.  The  man  kicked  me  in 
the  ribs. 

" Shoot  him,"  says  he. 

28 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


"Bide  a  wee,  man;  bide  a  wee/'  said  an- 
other man  with  an  Airedale  accent.  "I'm 
no  so  sairtain  aboot  the  sheep-killer." 

"It's  plain  to  see,"  says  the  first  man, 
"that  Joggs  came  on  this  cur  killing  a 
sheep  and  tackled  him." 

"'Cur,'"  says  the  Airedale  man,  "I 
dinna  ken  if  he's  such  a  cur.  He's  no  the 
sheep-killin'  breed." 

"Nonsense.    Give  me  the  gun." 

"Is  it  no  possible  this  Joggs  dog  was 
doin'  a  bit  maraudin'  on  the  sheep  and 
this  laddie  could  no  stand  by  to  see  it?" 


29 


CHAPTER  IV 

SANDY  KENS  A  DOG  WHEN  HE  SEES  ONE 

The  man  with  the  Airedale  talk  came 
to  me  and  patted  me  and  I  licked  his 
hand.  He  took  my  muzzle  and  looked 
into  my  face  and  shook  his  head.  Then 
he  straightened  me  up  and  eyed  me  all 
over  and  sucked  in  his  breath. 

"Somethin'  is  no  as  it  should  be  here/' 
says  he  to  himself.  "Yon's  no  tramp 
dog  stock.'7 

From  me  the  man  went  to  Joggs,  who 
was  just  beginning  to  crawl  about. 

"What's  this?"  says  he.  "Come  take 
a  look." 

He  was  holding  Joggs'  mouth  open. 

"Look  ye/'  says  he,  pointing  in.  "Tell 
me,  is  that  no  sheep's  wool?     Eh,  man?" 

30 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


The  other  man  looked  and  frowned 
and  seemed  upset. 

"  'Tis  caircumstantial  eevidence,"  says 
my  friend,  "but  we'll  gie  the  accused 
anither  test.  Do  you  go  and  admeen- 
ister  a  kick  to  yon  sheep." 

The  man  did  as  he  was  told,  and  at 
sight  of  it  I  couldn't  keep  still.  I  growled 
and  started  for  him. 

"Nay,  laddie,  nay,"  says  my  friend, 
grabbing  me  quick.  "Ye  could  no  see 
the  sheep  abused,  could  ye?  Now  what 
think  ye,  Mister  Hollands?" 

The  other  man  didn't  say  anything, 
but  just  stood  thinking.  While  he  stood 
Joggs  stood  up,  and  at  that  I  walked  to 
the  hurt  sheep  and  stood  over  it  with  my 
hair  bristling,  daring  Joggs  to  come  on. 

"Look  ye  there,"  says  my  friend. 
"Does  that  no  tell  which  is  sheep-killin' 
and  which  is  no?" 

I  guess  there  wasn't  any  doubting  who 
was  guilty.     I  know  what  was  left  of 

31 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


Joggs  looked  guilty  enough.  His  master 
scowled  at  him. 

"If  he  wasn't  worth  more  money  than 
the  whole  flock  of  sheep  I'd  give  him  a 
charge  of  shot,"  he  said,  angry-like. 

"How  aboot  this  ither  laddie?"  says 
my  friend.  "I'd  like  well  tae  see  him 
clean,  Mister  Hollands.  'Tis  Airedale 
he  is,  sir,  wi'  no  blemish  in  his  blood,  or 
I'm  a  Sassenach." 

The  other  man's  eyes  began  to  twin- 
kle. "He  gave  Joggs  a  licking.  Any 
dog  that  can  do  that  is  worth  his  feed." 

to 


Thank  ye,  sir,"  said  my  friend,  and 
then  he  turned  to  me.  "Will  ye  come  wi' 
me,  laddie?  Eh?"  I  wagged  my  tail  and 
followed  him.  Both  of  them  carried 
Joggs,  who  was  too  weak  to  walk. 

My  friend,  whose  name  turned  out  to 
be  Sandy,  washed  me  up  and  put  stuff 
on  my  cuts  and  fixed  up  a  place  for  me 
to  lie  down  in  the  stable.  I  wasn't  sorry 
to  take  a  long  sleep.     When  I  woke  up 

32 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


again  I  felt  as  good  as  ever,  barring  a 
little  smarting  where  Joggs'  teeth  had 
been  gnawing  around.  So  I  walked  out 
into  the  yard  to  look  for  Sandy  and 
something  to  eat. 

Mr.  Hollands  hadn't  many  dogs;  just 
a  couple  of  setters  and  Joggs  and  a  fox 
terrier  by  the  name  of  Scoot.  But  every 
one  was  a  thoroughbred  and  every  one 
had  brought  home  ribbons  from  bench 
shows.  I  was  the  only  one  that  couldn't 
brag  about  my  pedigree — and  I  could, 
but  there  was  no  way  of  proving  it. 
However,  the  other  dogs  besides  Joggs 
were  pleasant  and  friendly.  It  tickled 
them  to  see  Joggs  get  thrashed,  and  they 
told  me  so.  But,  kind  as  they  were,  they 
made  me  feel  somehow  that  I  was  differ- 
ent. What  with  their  talk  about  pedi- 
grees and  their  recollections  of  what 
happened  at  this  bench  show  and  that 
bench  show,  I  was  sort  of  out  of  it.  They 
were   always   talking  blue   ribbons   and 

33 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


cups  and  things  like  that,  when  I  didn't 
so  much  as  have  a  tin  plate. 

I  learned  that  the  next  show  came 
along  in  November  and  ended  so  the 
dogs  would  get  home  for  Thanksgiving. 
That  was  quite  a  while  off,  so  it  didn't 
bother  me  any,  and  besides  it  was  none 
of  my  business,  for  I  wouldn't  go.  Folks 
don't  pay  entry  fees  for  stray  dogs  as  a 
general  thing. 

But  Sandy  was  proud  of  me.  You 
wouldn't  believe  it,  but  he  was  fonder  of 
me  than  of  any  of  the  rest.  Once  I  heard 
him  bragging  about  me  to  Mr.  Hollands 
and  showing  my  points. 

"Ye  canna  fool  me  aboot  Airedales," 
says  he.  "Did  I  no  see  Ayreshire  Lass 
and  Argyle  Champion  morn,  noon  and 
night  for  a  matter  o'  a  year?  'Twas  in 
the  Douglas  kennels.  An'  I'm  tellin' 
ye,  sir,  this  bit  doggie  no  has  to  take  the 
dust  o'  anny  one  o'  them." 

"Shucks,"  says  Mr.  Hollands.     "He's 

34 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


only  a  tramp  dog.    You're  partial  to  him 
because  he  licked  Joggs." 

"I  ken  a  dog  when  I  see  him/'  says 
Sandy,  stubbornly. 

Another  time  a  strange  man,  walking 
through  the  yard  with  Mr.  Hollands, 
stopped  and  looked  at  me. 

"Didn't  know  you  went  in  for  Aire- 
dales, Hollands,"  he  said. 

"I  don't,"  says  Mr.  Hollands.  "That's 
nothing  but  a  tramp  that  Sandy  picked 
up." 

The  strange  man  looked  at  me  and  then 
called  me  over  to  pet  me  and  feel  of  my 
back  and  legs. 

"This  is  your  day  for  joking,  isn't  it?" 
he  says  to  Mr.  Hollands.  "If  this  is  a 
tramp,  then  I'm  going  to  sell  every 
blooded  dog  in  my  kennels.  Come,  now, 
where  did  you  pick  him  up?  Has  he 
ever  been  shown?" 

"I'm  not  joking.  He's  Sandy's  and 
he's  a  tramp." 

35 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


"Urn,"  says  the  man.  "Let's  see  if 
Sandy'll  sell  him." 

But  Sandy  wouldn't  sell  me,  though 
the  man  argued  with  him  half  an  hour. 
Finally  the  stranger  told  Sandy  he  didn't 
blame  him  and  asked  if  he  was  going  to 
send  me  to  the  show.  Sandy  said  he 
never  thought  of  it,  and  couldn't  see 
much  use. 

"Tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  the 
stranger.  "I'll  back  my  judgment  of 
that  dog.  You  send  him  and  I'll  pay  his 
fee  and  expenses.     How's  that,  Sandy?" 

"  'Tis  a  bargain,"  says  Sandy. 

And  that's  how  I  came  to  be  entered 
in  the  show. 

It  tickled  me,  though  I  hadn't  any 
idea  I'd  have  any  luck,  but  I  knew  it 
would  please  Mother  if  she  could  hear 
of  it.  I  hadn't  forgotten  her,  you'd 
better  believe,  and  was  just  as  deter- 
mined as  ever  to  find  her.  I  hadn't  for- 
gotten old  Pete  either,  but  he  was  timid 

36 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


about  coming  around.  The  best  I  could 
do  for  him  was  to  hide  out  bones  where 
he  would  find  them.  But  he  was  a  born 
tramp,  and  it  was  hard  for  him  to  stay 
in  one  place.  Finally  he  told  me  he  was 
going  to  take  to  the  road  and  we  said 
good-bye.  And  I've  never  seen  him 
again.  I  wish  I  might,  now,  for  I'd  like 
to  tell  him  what  a  lot  I  owe  him. 

All  this  time  Joggs  had  been  kept  shut 
up  where  he  couldn't  get  at  the  sheep  and 
where  he  and  I  couldn't  get  at  each  other. 
He  didn't  have  any  sense.  There's  such 
a  thing  as  courage  and  there's  such  a 
thing  as  foolishness — which  was  what 
Joggs  had.  He  would  have  fought  a 
freight  engine,  and  if  I'd  licked  him 
every  day  for  a  month,  he  would  have 
come  the  next  day  for  another  licking. 

It  was  getting  pretty  cold  now,  and 
November  was  commencing.  Nothing 
was  talked  of  by  the  dogs  but  the  show 
and  the  Thanksgiving  that  followed.    Mr. 

37 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


Hollands  always  celebrated  Thanksgiv- 
ing by  having  a  lot  of  folks  out  from  the 
city,  and  he  celebrated  for  his  dogs,  too, 
especially  if  they  did  well  at  the  show. 

During  that  month  we  had  especial 
care — even  myself,  for  Sandy  kept  get- 
ting prouder  and  prouder  of  me  every 
day.  At  last  he  got  so  he  believed  I  was 
the  equal  of  Argyle  Champion,  that  he 
used  to  know,  and  he  said  he  bet  my 
mother  was  as  good  a  dog  as  Ayreshire 
Lass.    But  I  knew  that  was  all  bosh. 

Going  to  the  show  was  no  fun.  Riding 
in  the  train  upset  my  stomach,  and  I 
was  pretty  glad  to  get  out  and  go  to  the 
big  hall  where  the  show  was,  even  if  I 
did  have  to  be  tied  in  a  sort  of  stall  with 
dogs  on  all  sides  of  me  that  kept  barking 
and  yelping  and  disturbing  me.  There 
was  every  sort  of  dog  in  the  world.  Right 
where  I  was,  though,  there  were  nothing 
but  Airedales,  and  I  never  imagined 
there  were  so  many  of  us. 

38 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


Over  at  my  right  I  could  see  a  square 
place  where  men  kept  leading  dogs  and 
other  men  looked  at  them  and  poked 
them  and  felt  them  and  wrote  in  little 
books.  The  dog  next  to  me  said  that 
was  where  the  judging  was  done  and 
that  those  men  were  the  judges.  That 
made  me  sort  of  excited  and  nervous, 
though,  as  I  have  said,  I  knew  there 
would  be  no  ribbons  for  me. 


39 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   TITLE    IS   HANDED    DOWN 

It  was  two  days  before  the  Airedales 
were  reached.  Sandy  had  fussed  around 
me  like  an  old  hen — you  know  how  they 
act  when  they  have  chicks.  He  washed 
me  and  combed  me  until  I  was  actually 
sore.  I  saw  dog  after  dog  go  past  and 
get  examined.  I  was  pretty  nearly  the 
last  one. 

"It's  just  a  formality,  Sandy/'  says 
Mr.  Hollands.  "Argyle  Champion  will 
hold  his  honors.  But  as  long  as  your 
dog  is  entered,  you  might  as  well  have 
him  looked  over." 

Sandy's  jaw  was  set,  but  he  didn't 
say  a  word  as  he  led  me  through  the 
gate. 

The    judges    were    standing    around 

40 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


careless-like  when  I  came  in,  but  when 
Sandy  lifted  me  up  on  the  stand  they 
seemed  to  get  interested,  and  asked 
Sandy  all  sorts  of  questions.  Then  they 
went  over  me  careful.  You  never  saw 
anybody  take  such  pains  as  they  did  to 
see  what  there  was  to  me.  Finally  a  big 
man  with  a  badge  shook  his  head  and 
said  it  was  beyond  him,  and  that  such 
things  didn't  happen. 

"Set  the  champion  up  here,"  says  he, 
and  Argyle  Champion  was  put  by  my 
side.  We  didn't  look  at  each  other. 
I  didn't  dare  look  at  him,  he  was  such 
an  important  dog.  Imagine  being  the 
best  Airedale  in  the  United  States! 

The  judges  compared  us  and  talked 
about  us,  and  I  could  see  Sandy  chewing 
on  his  moustache  and  almost  jumping 
up  and  down  with  excitement. 

Well,  sir,  right  in  the  middle  of  it  I 
looked  over  to  one  side  and  there  stood 
a  dog — an  Airedale.     For  a  moment  I 

41 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


couldn't  believe  my  eyes,  and  then  I  let 
out  a  yelp  of  joy  and  jumped  for  her. 
Men  tried  to  stop  me,  but  I  dodged 
them. 

"Mother,"  I  said.  "Mother,  it's  me! 
It's  me!" 

She  knew  me  in  a  second,  and  if  you 
ever  saw  two  dogs  acting  happy  and 
glad  to  see  each  other,  we  were  those 
dogs.  A  man  tried  to  haul  me  away,  but 
Mother  growled  at  him,  and  they  let  us 
alone  and  watched  us  with  such  surpised 
looks!     We  could  hear  them  talking. 

"Now,  what  d'you  make  of  that?" 
says  one. 

"It  beats  me,"  says  another. 

"They  know  each  other  as  sure  as  shoot- 
ing," says  the  big  man  with  the  badge. 

"Wouldn't  it — wouldn't  it  beat  the 
Dutch,"  says  another  man,  as  if  he  didn't 
quite  dare  say  it,  "if  this  was  the  lost 
puppy — the  one  that  got  out  the  night 
of  the  Douglas  Kennels  fire?" 

42 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


u 


"Such  things  don't  happen/'  says  an- 
other man. 

Is  Weaver  here?"  says  the  big  man. 
He  might  have  some  way  of  recognizing 
this  dog — if  it  was  that  puppy.  It's  our 
duty  to  find  out  if  we  can.  Yes,  sir;  it's 
our  duty." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  came  back  with 
a  man  they  called  Weaver,  and  he  was 
the  man  who  used  to  come  to  see  Mother 
and  the  rest  of  us  so  often  in  the  kennels. 
He  was  excited,  and  Mother  was  excited, 
and  I  was  excited.  Mother  ran  to  him, 
and  then  back  to  me,  and  licked  my 
face,  and  then  ran  back  to  Weaver.  He 
blinked  his  eyes  as  if  something  was  the 
matter  with  him. 

"If,"  says  Mr.  Weaver,  "if  this  is  Ayr- 
shire Lass's  lost  puppy  he's  got  the  mark 
of  a  scar  nicked  across  his  left  hind  leg  a 
couple  of  inches  above  his  paw.  Jumped 
on  the  sharp  edge  of  a  tin  can,  and  we 
were  afraid  at  first  it  had  got  the  tendon." 

43 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


The  whole  crowd  of  men  came  for  me 
and  lifted  me  on  the  stand  beside  Argyle 
Champion  again,  and  looked  at  my  leg. 
I  knew  what  they'd  find.  I  knew  there 
was  a  little  mark  across  the  leg  where  no 
hair  grew — it  was  some  sort  of  a  scar. 

They  found  it,  and — well,  sir — they 
yelled,  actually  cheered,  and  Sandy  came 
pushing  through  them  and  grabbed  me 
and  hugged  me,  and  other  folks  came 
crowding  around  to  see  what  had  hap- 
pened.    I  never  saw  such  goings-on. 

After  a  while  the  big  man  pushed 
everybody  away  and  says: 

" We've  got  to  finish  this  job,"  so  once 
more  the  judges  compared  me  and  Argyle 
Champion  inch  by  inch.  Finally  the 
big  man  turned  away  and  said  gruff- 
like: 

"There's  a  new  champion,  boys." 

I  didn't  understand  until  I  saw  Sandy 
go  crazy,  and  until  Mother  yelped,  and 
until  Argyle  Champion,  like  a  real  Scotch 

44 


INTO  HIS  OWN 


gentleman,  turned  his  head  slowly  and 
looked  at  me,  and  said  in  a  voice  that 
was  kind,  but  very,  very  dignified: 

"I  congratulate  you.  ...  It  is  not 
an  ill  thing  to  be  succeeded  by  one's 
son — for  you  are  my  son,  you  know." 

That's  about  all.  All,  except  that  Mr. 
Hollands  paid  a  whopping  price  for  my 
Mother,  and  sold  Joggs — or  Raynsford 
Champion — for  another  whopping  price. 
Said  he  wanted  no  more  to  do  with  bull- 
dogs. Then  Mother  and  the  rest  of  the 
dogs  and  myself  went  home. 

Next  day  was  Thanksgiving.  Maybe 
you  think  that  is  a  day  just  for  men  and 
women,  but  don't  fool  yourself.  Dogs 
have  as  much  right  to  give  thanks  as 
anybody.  We  did.  I  never  understood 
much  about  Thanksgiving  before,  but  I 
do  now — for  Mother  and  I  are  together 
again,  and  I'm  not  a  tramp  for  every- 
body to  throw  stones  at,  but  am  Clydes- 
dale Champion — that's  my  new  kennel 

45 


INTO   HIS  OWN 


name.  Yes,  I'm  thankful — thankful  there 
was  a  scar  on  my  leg.  Why,  I  have  so 
many  things  to  be  thankful  for  that  I 
can't  think  of  them  all. 

Which  is  a  pretty  good  way  to  be,  isn't 
it? 


46 


